Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Getting back into a routine has proven to be way harder than I had initially anticipated.
For the first few days, I lived out of my bed, fighting the effects of jet lag—and heartbreak. I went out exclusively to meet with my parents for lunch and to stock up on enough groceries to feed an entire family of four for two weeks.
To give myself some credit, I did unpack along the way. I scattered pieces of London throughout the apartment like breadcrumbs—better to remember than to forget. They’re a part of me now.
It helped. Enough, at least, not to cancel on Emma.
The beach was warm, the sun generous. I laid out and got some color while Emma braved the waves in her faded green bikini.
While she surfed, I finished my book––called the killer two chapters in––and cheered her on with sunscreen still drying on my shins.
After lunch, we wandered the farmers market and replaced nearly every plant that had died under her overzealous care.
Now, tucked into corners of my home, curling toward light, they’re tiny reminders of revival. So is the camera I finally unpacked from my carry-on and placed back in its spot near the windowsill.
It’s been ten days since I last heard his voice. Twenty since I last saw him.
I want to say that it’s gone by in the blink of an eye, but it hasn’t.
I’ve re-read his message at least once every day since I got it.
I haven’t told Emma about it. Not about the message.
Or about the L-word now being in play. When she asked what happened on our way home that night, I shrugged it off and mumbled something about an apology.
She hasn’t asked since then, but she’s been acting off enough that I know she suspects more.
Work, for what it’s worth, hasn’t helped at all. Jeff’s been suspiciously nice, like he’s afraid I might crack open if he so much as asks about London. He’s not mentioned Harrison, or his comment, and I get the sense he assumes we’re done.
Maybe we are. Maybe we aren’t.
But what’s harder to ignore is the itch I’ve been feeling every time I sit at my old desk. Like the seat doesn’t fit me anymore. Like the life I worked so hard to fall back into is not made for me.
I’m sitting in bed, editing some of the photos I took last weekend of Emma splashing around in the water looking like an absolute queen. Another of pink radishes lined up like little pearls. A close-up of a peach split open with the sun catching its fuzz.
The kind of photos that feel easy but say a lot.
I switch tabs to check my email, and the homepage headlines catch my eye:
Made for Fear Renewal Cancelled Before Take-Off’—After weeks of meetings and script reads, producers confirm the show is officially shelved.
My stomach drops.
No.
No, no, no.
After everything. The late nights. The drama. This was supposed to be his ticket back.
I open my messages, the need to text kicking in.
Are you okay? I’ve heard about the show.
I type it. Then stare. Then backspace every word.
It doesn’t feel right to ignore what he said—but I also can’t acknowledge it right now.
Instead, I scroll to the top of my inbox, where another email sits unopened.
Submission Confirmation––Ocean Gallery Collective
There it is. The part of me I left buried after Noah. The one I promised I’d make peace for again someday. Staring back at me like a flower waiting to flourish.
So, before I can lose my nerve, I open a blank draft and address it to Jeff––and the board.
“I have everything ready,” Emma says. It’s Friday night, we’re sitting on my living room floor, sharing a pizza and watching a new reality TV show about one of New York’s richest families.
“I booked the private section of The Hut for dinner and drinks. I called Dylan too, but of course, he didn’t respond. ”
I roll my eyes. My brother is always too busy to allot a full evening to anything that smells remotely like a family event.
“How did you manage to get into the reserved?”
It’s already hard enough to book a table for four, let alone a whole area. The Hut is one of the most requested dinner spots in Santa Monica. Their terrace is quite literally on the beach––frequented by thirsty surfers during the day and locals who love overpriced cocktails by night.
Inside, it’s like stepping into a coastal dream.
Fishing nets hang from the ceilings, soft blue tones for walls and beige furniture blends right into the sand.
The side facing the beach isn’t even a wall––just foldable glass panels that disappear on warm nights.
We’ve only ever gotten in once, and that’s because we booked two weeks in advance.
“How long have you been planning this?” I ask, slightly worried that she’s been orchestrating this for months only to have me not 100% excited to go.
She waves me off like it’s nothing. “Don’t worry about it. All you have to do is show up looking pretty.”
I groan dramatically. “That’s the hardest part.”
“Cheer up,” she says, bumping her shoulder against mine. “Have I told you I got you the best birthday gift ever?”
“Only like a million times.” I’ve been trying to figure it out for days. “I’m starting to think you’ve over hyped it.”
“Trust me, I don’t think I can hype this up enough,” she’s confident.
I sigh. I’m starting to worry I’ll ruin my own birthday party with this lukewarm attitude. It’s so frustrating. I wish there was a switch to turn off the part of my brain that’s still tangled in London. Or him.
“I’m sorry,” I apologize in advance. “I promise I’ll try my best to be cheerful.”
She finishes the piece she was munching on and pulls me into a hug.
“You can be sad around me, Jay. I don’t care. We all deal with things differently,” she says, just as wise as always. “All I care about is that you’re here. And honestly, you are doing much better this time.”
She’s right. I think about that every day.
The way I’m handling things now, compared to what happened after Noah, is a drastic improvement.
But it makes me wonder why this feels easier when it should be harder.
Am I tricking my brain into thinking it’s not over?
What happens when twenty days bleed into months and I realize it’s indeed done for good?
We get to the restaurant right before sunset. The terrace is still buzzing, beach bums and evening beachgoers mixed peacefully. The glass panels are open wide, letting the ocean breeze flow in, really setting the mood.
We’re led to the far-right side of the restaurant where the private area is sectioned off. A long table stretches down the center, with cold appetizers and wine bottles chilling in individual coolers.
I blink in surprise––not because it extravagant, but because it’s perfect.
Around the table are people who matter most: my parents, Emma’s parents, her younger sister Olivia and even Dylan.
He showed up at the last minute looking sheepish and out of place in a white button-down shirt he clearly didn’t iron himself––but at least he’s here.
I greet everyone with hugs and laughter, hugging Emma’s mom a little longer than necessary. There’s always been something comforting about her warmth.
“This is… so special,” I whisper to Emma once we’ve sat. “You wrangled all of the for me?”
“This and more,” she answers, cryptic as ever.
Dinner unfolds easily. The wine flows. The food is perfect. The conversation bounces from one end of the table to the other, and for a moment, it really does feel like nothing’s missing.
Once everyone’s had a drink (or two) of courage, Emma taps her knife gently against her glass and stands.
“I thought we could pause for a quick toast,” she says. “To good health, good company, and our favorite birthday girl, Julia.”
I groan as everyone claps, but I can’t help smiling.
“Please don’t leave us again,” she adds dramatically. “Or if you do, take me with you.”
More laughter.
They all raise their glasses, and something stirs inside me. I didn’t plan on speaking, but the words spill out.
“Before we toast, I just want to say thank you,” I say. “I haven’t exactly been super present these past few months, but you’ve all shown up for me anyway. It was hard leaving home, but now, being here with all of you makes me feel like I’m back where I need to be.”
More cheers, a couples of awes from the moms, and then we clink glasses.
I let myself enjoy the rest of the dinner.
I realize, through small conversations, that this is what life is.
I had been missing so much of it before.
It’s about the memories we make every day with the people closest to us—the ones that always show up even after three months of silence.
And that’s what they all are; they’re my people.
As long as I have their support in my life, I know I’ll be okay.
It might still be hard for a while—what heartbreak isn’t? But it’s through our worst times we discover the beautiful bonds we have with others.
Fancy fruit drinks with tiny umbrellas start flowing around the table. I don’t know how, but I end up holding a red cocktail with a thin slice of strawberry garnish that tastes like it could belong in a five-star Caribbean all-inclusive hotel.
I don’t make a habit of drinking on the weekends—I don’t enjoy that it makes me feel all woozy.
But it’s my birthday, I do have some feelings I wouldn’t mind burying for the night, and this daiquiri is unbelievably addictive.
I thought I was taking my time with it, but my head bobs to suck on the straw only to find out I’m empty.
I try to make my way to the bar, but Emma intercepts me midway.
She checks her phone quickly and glances over to Olivia, who I realize has been strangely standing by the door for quite a while now.
“Hey! This is great, thank you,” I tell her. “I’m just going to get myself another one of these.”
I try to move, but she doesn’t let go of my arm. I frown. Something smells fishy.
“No! Stay here with me. I feel like I’ve not seen you all night,” she complains, even though we’ve been sitting across from each other for two hours. “The waiter will come through with another round of drinks after the cake.”
I squint my eyes at her, suspicious. “Is this about your gift? You’re all acting so weird right now, and I know I’m not imagining it because unfortunately I’ve only enjoyed one of these strawberry delights, and I’m not even tipsy.”
“Fine, yes. You got me,” she admits, still gripping me. “It’s almost ready. I only need a couple of minutes. First, let me bring out your cake. We’ll sing happy birthday. Don’t move.”
I huff, but I do as I’m told. She marches towards Olivia, both leaving the room in a hurry. I turn on my heels awkwardly. I’m not in the mood for surprises—my willpower to have a good time draws the line at normal interactions, not public displays of emotion.
That part of my brain is still fussing over Harrison’s loss. I wonder if he remembered it’s my birthday. If he did, he didn’t text.
The room dims slightly. Emma returns holding a white buttercream cake with candles all over. Everyone starts singing. Loudly. Badly. Lovingly.
“Make a wish,” she says when it’s done.
I’ve never believed in wishes. Life doesn’t work that way. You get rewarded for hard work, not for dreaming about what it could be. I live by this—and yet something pushes me to close my eyes. My first thought is him, but instead, I wish for something simpler. Something we all look for: happiness.
When I open my eyes, Emma looks as giddy as someone can be. She hands the cake off and does a little jump.
“Are you ready for my gift?”
I don’t think I’m ever ready for anything she plans.
The door creaks open behind her, but I can’t see anything with the crowd around me. The air shifts. My mom gasps.
And when they all part, I see him.
Josh.
Looking as handsome as ever.
My heart starts pounding so hard I fear it might burst from my chest. He flashes one of his signature smiles, raising his eyebrow at me. No one says a thing. No one even dares to move. The music fades into the background; all I can focus on is him.
Am I dreaming? Did I drink too much without realizing, and is all of this a figment of my imagination, playing a cruel trick on me? I want to touch him, to make sure he’s real, but I’m stuck. I can’t get any words out. I can’t even take a step.
But that’s okay, because he seems to notice my struggle and takes matters into his own hands. Each of his steps feels in sync with my heartbeat—all the way until he’s standing just a foot away.
“Josh,” I whisper, finally catching up to the fact that he is indeed in LA—serving as my birthday present—and not at home in London.
His smile widens. The longing in his eyes dissipates, like all he needed was to hear my voice. Then, he lifts his hand carefully, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
“Happy birthday,” he says, his voice soft, almost like a secret meant only for me. He’s real. He’s here.
And just like that, I believe in wishes just a little bit more.